Page 183 of Lessons in Chemistry

I nod. It’s Dad’s birthday, and he wanted to eat at the restaurant where I work. He likes taking clients there too, mostly so he can brag about his son being the head chef of one of the swankiest restaurants in London. It’s taken a long time, but I have a good relationship with my parents. They’re invested in my dreams and the future Casey, Emory, and I are building together. And what a future it is. We’re in our mid-thirties, and we’ve got everything I ever dreamt of and more.

“Did you get that, Casey?” Emory calls through the open patio door.

Casey stops swimming, stands, and pushes his hair away from his face. He’s let it grow longer than when we were at university. He still shaves all his body hair, even though he doesn’t compete anymore. It’s a habit he’s never got out of, and Emory and I will never complain about. He’s as sexy as ever, as is Emory.

“Dinner. This evening. Got it. I’m looking forward to it.” He gets out of the pool, wraps a towel around his waist, and joins us on the patio, greeting each of us with a kiss before sitting.

I push a glass of orange juice towards him. Although I converted Emory to drinking hot coffee, Casey still hates coffee in all its forms.

“I can’t believe this is our life,” I say.

Emory laughs. “You say that every morning. It’s real. You don’t need to pinch yourself.”

It helps that we have three full-time wages, no kids to eat into our pay, and that Emory and I have worked our way up to senior roles with pay to match. But even so, it doesn’t always feel real.

“What would convince you it’s real?” Emory asks.

“Hm. Going back to bed and cuddling my men?” I twist the promise ring on my finger.

“I smell of chlorine,” Casey says.

“You always smell of chlorine,” Emory says.

“And we love you for it.”

Casey grins.

“Going back to bed sounds like a good idea.” It’s Sunday morning, so none of us have to be anywhere until tonight. It’s the one day of the week when none of us have to work. I adore Sundays.

We abandon breakfast and wander inside, through the open-plan living area to the master bedroom. We use two bedrooms on a regular basis, while the third is a guest room. The master bedroom is light and airy. The people who owned the house before us opened up the loft space to create a double-height room with wooden beams. Our king-sized bed takes up most of the room, but we wouldn’t want it any other way.

Casey goes into the en suite while Emory and I undress. When he returns, he’s dry and has taken his Speedos off. We climb into bed, quickly becoming a tangle of limbs and searching lips. Over the years, Casey has become comfortable being fully naked with us in bed. We’ve learnt how tactile we can be as a triad without crossing his boundaries. As long as our touch doesn’t become sexual, he’s happy. He’s able to express his pleasure through sound without worrying he’s giving the wrong signals. I adore lying with my men, stroking and being stroked, hugging and being hugged.

We spend the rest of the morning in each other’s arms and then have a shower together. One of the things we knew we wanted to install was a double shower so there was space for all three of us.

The afternoon drifts by as we hang out together, talking, playing games, and doing boring housework. In the evening, we get to the restaurant with about one minute to spare. My parents are already there, waiting at the table I reserved for us. One of the perks of being the head chef is that I get to beat the queue. If I want a table, I get one. For everyone else, getting a table means booking weeks in advance.

They stand, and Dad shakes each of our hands while Mum kisses our cheeks.

“You all look lovely,” she says.

“We scrub up pretty well,” I reply.

We’re as smartly dressed as we get, which means we’re the least well-dressed people in the restaurant. But we’re comfortable, and that’s what matters.

Unsurprisingly, the waiting staff are attentive, and we get our food in record time. All of it tastes delicious, which is good because I’d hate to have to tell anyone off when I’m on shift tomorrow.

“I’m going to retire,” Dad says over dessert.

“You’re what?”

He’s sixty-five today. Surely, he’s too young to retire?

“Not yet. I’ll work for another year so I can hand over the reins of the business.”

My chest squeezes tight. “Who to?”

“You. Sort of.”